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The Little Bookfellow Series 



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Estrays 



Estrays 



Thomas Kennedy 
George , Seymour 
Vincent ^tarrett 
Basil Thompson 




CHICAGO 
THE BOOKFELLOWS 

1920 



Of this second revised edition, three hundred copies 
have been printed in the month of March, 1920 



u^'^ 









THE TORCH PRESS 

CEDAR RAPIDS 

IOWA 



To 
The Rhymers' Club 



.^lUSu^j^ 



CONTENTS 

THOMAS KENNEDY 
Resurrection 
Youth . 
Death . 
The Ships 
Moonlight 
The Emperor 
Star Child . 
Gethsemane , 
Master Chemist 
Spring Wind . 
The Goddess . 
The Trees to Winter 
Return . 

GEORGE SEYMOUR 
At the Bazaar 
Immortality . 
Moonlight on Salton Sea 
After the War . 
Where is Pan 
Beltane the Smith 
In Bagdad 

Money .... 
Fairy Gold . 
The Deserted House . 
7 



i» 



11 
13 
13 
13 
14 
15 
16 
17 
17 
18 
19 
19 
20 

23 

24 
25 
25 
27 

28 
28 
29 
29 
30 



Sonnet After Shakespeare ... 31 

In Spite of Time 31 

Light and Song 32 

VINCENT STARRETT 

Villon Strolls at Midnight ... 35 

Salom^ 35 

Scheherezade 36 

Don Quixote 36 

D'Artagnan 37 

Joseph 38 

Encounter 38 

Lament of the King's Son .... 39 

Immortality 39 

Changeling 40 

Bagdad: 1917 41 

Sepulture 41 

Shop Windows in Winter .... 42 

BASIL THOMPSON 

Beata Memoria 45 

Preincarnation 45 

Ego et Desiderium Meum .... 46 



THOMAS KENNEDY 



I 



RESURRECTION 

I shall lie down some day to take my rest, 

I shall lie down and never rise again ; 

And men shall lay me in some quiet plain 
To sleep beneath tall elms, where robins nest ; 
Where great winds, roaring sudden from the west, 

Drive fugitive the cold and frightened rain ; 

But they shall beat upon my door in vain 
When I lie sleeping there, kind old Earth's guest. 

Until I wake . . . for I shall wake and live . . 
Not as before men named me with the dead, 
But in some newer, better guise. Who knows 
What ecstasy the future years may give ? 
These lips may paint some royal poppy red 
Or this hot breath be perfume for a rose. 



THE QUEST 

For days, amid the grieving hills 
I sought for him, in vain ; 

There was no presence by the rills ; 
No glory on the plain ; 

In beautiful solemnity 

The trees were sorrowful with me; 
The skies were sad with rain. 
11 



I listened while the billowed corn 

Revealed its mystery . . , 
I listened vainly for a horn 

In eadenced ecstasy; 
The thrushes sang with throbbing throats 
Across the fields of yellow oats . . . 

They could not sing for me. 

A haze of purple vistas lay 

On -pastures' slope and crest, 
Where mottled cattle dreamed away 

The afternoon in rest ; 
But though the land was Arcady, 
Its greater, deeper mysterj^ 

Rewarded not my quest. 

"Since he is gone awaj^" I cried, 

"From all who worship him. 
And since his comfort is denied 

To those whose eyes are dim, 
Perhaps they spoke the truth who said 
That Pan — the Great God Pan — is dead, 

With all his satyrs slim." 

Then — miracle ! — \ipon the breeze 

I heard his music run; 
I saw a glory through the trees 

Like lances in the sun : 
And O, the rapture in the air! » 

I knew, I knew that he was there ... ■ 

I knew my quest was done. 



12 



YOUTH 

You were a queen, more proudly insolent 
Than God, upon His throne of endless j'^ears. 

You ruled with yokes of iron ; but you went 
And left me mourning you with scalding tears. 

You were no tender mistress, and my feet 
In stony paths and brambled ways you led : 

But you were life — were magic — madly sweet . . . 
I mourn, I mourn you . . . now that you are dead. 



DEATH 

Wliy come with visage menacing and grim 
To give the only thing my heart desires ; 

Merciful sleep, forevermore to dim 
The torment of my being's inmost fires? 

0, rather you should come with shining face, 
Like one who brings the glory of the moon 

To comfort some parched, gasping garden place 
After the hell of summer afternoon. 



THE SHIPS 

Fair in the hush of the morning, 

And fair beyond desire 
When the noonday sun with wastrel hand 

Scatters the blue with fire; 
But silent, alone in the gloaming. 

There waits the fairest sight, 
13 



When the long black ships steal out to sea 
As the day fades into night. 

There are yachts which hug the harbor, 

Launches which glide near by, 
But the long black ships go out and out 

Where the waves embrace the sky. 
Gone is the glare of mid-day. 

The sun sleeps in the west ; 
Gray is the sea and tranquil; 

The city sinks to rest. 
And the petty cares and the vain desires 

Have somehow lost their might 
When the long black ships creep out to sea 

As the gloaming fades to night. 



MOONLIGHT 

With glory of the moonlight on your face 

And tangled in the glamour of your hair, 

You sit and gaze across dim-silvered hills 

And purple-shadowed valleys, calm as death. 

But beautiful as life, for it is June. 

June night : swift shadows glance across the lawn 

Through silence murmurous and eloquent 

Of magic ; far away the lordly trees 

Stand black against a radiance of sky 

Like happy gods who watch a festival . . . 

Pale blossoms whisper tender fragrances 
To the shy breeze, which fears to kiss their lips 
But yields to longing and the spell of June. 
14 



You are caressed by moonlight ; I can see 

Answering flame-points smoulder in your eyes — 

Passions the night could kindle into fire 

To wrap you in a flame of deity — 

Fire crying unto fire across the void. 

You gaze upon the hills and do not see 

The terror of the glory of it all 

Which freezes me to silence, as you sit 

With glory of the moonlight on your face. 



THE EMPEROR 

"Long live the Emperor!" they cried; 

Then for his name and fame and glory 
They marched and starved, they fought and died, 

And that is all the story. 
All — save that in a million homes 
Around his golden palace domes, 
Sad mothers, weeping for their dead. 
Could nevermore be comforted. 

"Long live the Emperor ! ' ' they said ; 

Ah yes, he lived — to lose his power ; 
Vain, vain were all his million dead 

To stay that dreadful hour. 
Men say: "How great! He cannot die." 
And then they turn and pass him by . . . 
Thousands to praise, but none to bless 
His life of perfect selfishness. 



15 



STAR CHILD 

Child of the Evening Star, by what strange token 

Have I possessed you, pressed you to my heart 
And held you secret there, with ties unbroken 

Though War's grim whirl has flung us far apart? 
I have you now, your voice, your bliss of laughter, 

Your white arms, folding breast to throbbing breast. 
As ships embrace the heart of Ocean, after 

Soft winds have kissed the hurricane to rest. 

Child of the Evening Star — of fire and splendor — 

Soft flame, and exquisite as poppies wear. 
Holds and enfolds you, passionate and tender, 

Glories your face and shimmers in your hair. 
O, you may walk beside me thus, demurely, 

In quaint pretense you never dwelt afar. 
Telling yourself you have deceived me surely, 

And yet I know you. Child of elf and star, 
Moved by mad dreams which sometimes in your eye light 

To seek a drosser love than you have known 
Where yonder in the opalescent twilight 

Planet and sunset hail you as their own. 
What was it sought you, brought you hither flying, 

When out of that bright other-world you came 
To where the embers of my heart lay dying 

And quickened them into a rose of flame ? 

Child of the Evening Star, my own, forever. 
You heal the heartbreak of this lonely place. 

Bound to my heart with ties which will not sever. 
Bridging the twin, dread gulfs of time and space. . 

With thoughts more fragrant than your kisses are . . 
Child of the Evening Star. 
16 



GETHSEMANE 

But afterward, when He had won through death, 
Had overcome the grim, relentless tomb. 

And come forth to the fragrant morning breath 
Of that still Sabbath, from the narrow room ; 

When He had seen the mourners dry their tears, 
And in the upper chamber stilled the cry 

Of those sad watchers, wrung with doubts and fears, 
With calm assurance, "Fear not, it is I." 

I think He must have gone a little space 
To that dim garden of the Dreadful Night, 

Where He had watched alone, but on His face 
No drops of anguish now, but quiet light. 

How splendid must have seemed His triumph where 
He fought the fearful battle, all alone, 

Conquering sin, and sorrow, and despair — 
His place of anguish now become a throne. 



MASTER CHEMIST 

Do you sit deep in silence over all. 

Watching with calmly fixed, impersonal eye, 
These great retorts where suns flare up and die, 
Where sparkling drops of life distill and fall 
Each one a world, like this fantastic ball 
Of dreadful elements mixed? As ages fly, 
17 



Do you not smile, and do you never sigh, 
Compounding flame and dust, honey and gall? 

I am a child, and marvel as your hand 

Shapes bliss from pain, death from the beautiful 
Alike, with deft assurance and calm power. 
I tremble, for I dare not understand 
Your crushing souls in war's red crucible. 

And pausing then to shape this wistful flower. 



SPRING WIND 

Fey wind, gray wind. 

Laden with April rain, 
Over the roofs of the city 

Flinging the scent of the plain. 
Freeing the streams from their winter dreams 

And waking the flowers again. 
Why do you bring with the birth of the spring. 

Longing and tears and pain? 

Chill wind, ill wind, 

Why do you call to me, 
Breathing of fields and of forests. 

Singing of ways that are free, 
Telling a tale of the world-old trail 

Over the land and sea, 
Laying the thrall of the wander call 

Over the heart of me. 



18 



THE GODDESS 

Mid the rough clangor of the squalid street, 

I knew her by a shining in the air. 

Her shawl was torn, and half revealed her hair, 
And broken shoes the brightness of her feet ; 
A poor, worn dress could not deny the sweet 

And lyric form ; pausing in wonder there, 

The glory of her eyes I could not bear, 
But only knew she passed with footsteps fleet. 

Who was it called them, to what futile quest. 
That still the murky flood of men roared past 
And played at life, with staring eyes and dead ? 
They might have paused to worship and be blest — 
That crowd that cursed and laughed and sped so 
fas-t, 
And would not see the splendor round her head. 

THE TREES TO WINTER 

We were robed in purple and yellow. 

In crimson and much fine gold, 
For Earth was grown kind and mellow, 

The Summer was rich and old. 
The wine of Autumn flowed through our blood 
Making us kings with its fiery flood. 

Yea, we were well contented 

To dream in the still, warm light, 
In the blue haze, aster scented. 

In the star-bloomed mist of night . . . 
Where is our gold, our wine, our sun 1 
Winter ! Winter ! What have you done ? 

19 



RETURN 

One told of footpaths leading unto rest 
In quiet fields by little, land-locked bays ; 
So I forsook the dance and wanton lays 

Life pipes for us, and gave me to the quest, 

I followed him who said that peace was best, 
But I am sad with walking desolate ways 
Through leafless thorn trees, toward a land which 
stays 

Ever beyond one hill which bars the west. 

Now I will turn from seeking that far shore ; 
Too long have I denied the sparkling flutes. 
0, flutes of madness, notes of ancient fire, 
Pipe me some perfect sun to shine once more 

Where grow the trees with long-forbidden fruits . . . 
Yes, scarlet fruit in gardens of desire. 



20 



GEOKGE SEYMOUR 



AT THE BAZAAR 

The Bookseller Speaks 

Come into my shop, 

Grave ladies and gay ; 
Messieurs et Mesdames, 

Your favor I pray — 
Here are wonderful weaves 

From the looms of Louvain, 
And damask from China, 

And laces from Spain. 
This necklace a-glitter 

With opal and pearl 
Was torn from the neck 

Of an Ottoman girl ; 
'Twas her lover who gave it, 

A youth from Cathay — 
How he fought when I went there 

To take it away ! 
Here 's the dagger that killed him, 

A beautiful blade. 
No forge in Damascus 

Its equal has made ; 
It has but one blemish — 

This tiny red stain 
That was made by the heart-blood 

Of him who was slain. 

23 



This girdle, 'twas worn by 

The Sultan's late pride; 
When she bore him a daughter 

He cast her aside. 
Here's the pillow that smothered 

Both mother and babe. 
Their hour was told 

By this gold astrolabe. 
The price — but a trifle ! 

No trickster am I. 
Salaam to your Worships! 

Who '11 buy ? Oh, who '11 buy ? 



IMMORTALITY 

A prince there was, than -whose no bolder pride 
Rang in bought praise or scarred the blushing stone ; 
In many a graven shaft his glory shone. 

And many a minstrel journeyed far and wide 

To sing his greatness. Art and genius vied 
To spread his tale of countless foes o'erthrown. 
While toiling thousands piled up stone on stone 

To seal him to the ages when he died. 

The prince is dead. Forgotten lies his grave. 
His very name the years have swept away 
And blotted every record of his race ; 
All save the fame of one immortal slave 
Who cried the anguish of his dreadful day 
In tones that thunder down the vault of space. 



24 



MOONLIGHT ON SALTON SEA 

Sagebrush and sand, and ever the long, long trail ; 

Never a burst of gladsome melody ; 
Never a herd, never a dancing sail ; 

Only the moon, shining on Salton Sea. 

Never the morning call, echoing wide. 
Never the ruddy glow of noon for me. 

Only the peace that comes with the eventide, 
Comes with the moon, shining on Salton Sea. 

Only the dream of a vanished happiness. 

Only a faded garland of memory, 
Onl}^ a lonely grave in the wilderness 

Under the moon, shining on Salton Sea. 



AFTER THE WAR 

I sing of now, today, 

The spent world's menopause, the end of wrath. 

The great storm's aftermath 

That we had come to think would never pass away. 

For we had tuned our hearts to savage things, 
The growing list of dead. 

The tithes, and waiting for the mail that brings 
The message we both glorify and dread. 
And now we slowlj^ rise as from a fever bed. 

Now darkness finds the city still and hard 
Save where the busy drabs have taken root, 

25 



Two soldiers beg along the boulevard, 

The roaring cliffs are mute, 

The night wind sallies forth like any prostitute 

And lays an icy hand upon his arm. 
Bidding the passer stay, 
But he has had enough of death and harm 
And so he shakes it off and goes his way. 
Leaving to fighting men what is for such as they. 

And eagerly they go 

Down to the place where youth may have its will. 

The common meeting ground of high and low 

For good or ill. 

So there is singing there when all the rest is still. 

Pale morning wears no friendlier guise — 
Greed, and the vengeful politician's vow. 
And everywhere the halting of emprise, 
For he who struck the foe, strikes his own country 
now. 

Beside the curb a sailor bids for gold 
And girls seek largess for some tawdry scheme. 
Both trading on the spirit that of old 
Poured forth a mighty stream — 
But now that this is past, how cheap and bold they 
seem ! 

A fellow just released from war's demands, 
In store-bought clothes, conspicuously new, 
With all day on his hands, 
Aimlessly drifts along the avenue. 
His heart aflame with the wild fires of life. 

26 



Somewhere he has a wife. 

Shall he go back and live with her again ? 

Or let her think him fallen in the strife 

And vanish from her ken? 

Slowly his footsteps turn to join the singing men. 

So life looms up today 
Like a white wall that glistens in the wind, 
And all unwitting what may lie behind, 
We stumble on our way. 

WHERE IS PAN ? 

(An answer to Thomas Kennedy's "The Quest") 

You have sought him, you say, 

In the hills up and down, 
In the dells far away, 

And the streets of the town — 
Have you looked in the camp of the soldiers ? 

Who pipes the trim figures in brown ? 

He is not in the glade 

Where the wildflowers grow ; 
Nor beneath the cool shade 

Of the boughs bending low — 
Who puts the green wreaths on the crosses. 

The crosses that stand in a row ? 

In the woods far and wide 

You have sought him in vain, 
And the sweet countryside 

Echoes not to his strain. 
satyrs and nymphs, would ye find him ? 

Go search in the houses of pain. 

27 



BELTANE THE SMITH 

I met Sir Beltane in the cool greenwood, 

The purest knight in all Pentavalon ; 

His milky crest, so fair to look upon, 
Ne'er led to combat save in quarrel good. 
Four trusty men-at-arms beside him stood. 

Sworn brothers in the enmity of wrongs, 

Brave with the beauty that to strength belongs, 
And none to match them in their lustihood. 

Framed in the golden panoply of youth, 

Thine honor shineth than thy sword more bright. 
More stout thy courage than thy coat of mail. 
The archetype of chivalry, forsooth. 

Methinks the world were better for this knight, 
Though he but be a figure in a tale. 



IN BAGDAD 

In Bagdad, when the world is still 

And night is overhead. 
The prison yard is damp and chill. 

The graves give up their dead, 
And he who walks on Gallows Hill 

Strange things will see, 'tis said. 

In Bagdad, when the summer sun 
His golden madness flings. 

The dusty ways with frolic run. 
The very desert sings; 

A revel-tide of mirth and fun 
O'erspreads the dullest things. 

28 



In Bagdad, when a lady fair 
Admits her lover's claim, 

It thrills him to each tingling hair, 
Each sense its sets aflame. 

In Bagdad — aye, and everywhere 
Methinks 'tis much the same. 



MONEY 

A heap of shining counters piled up high ; 

The price of virtue or the wage of sin ; 
A monarch in whose service many die ; 

A god whose favor many toil to win ; 
A mountebank in solemn motley clad. 

Treading a mirthless dance with feet inert ; 
A fairy, sometimes good, more often bad; 

Enfin — a pile of useless yellow dirt. 

Vagrant ! That men to you should vassals be, 
And lovers bow, and poets raise their song ! 

Around your throne in equal company 

Alike the meanest and the greatest throng. 

Mine be the grace your favor to forget. 

God send I serve you not. And yet — and yet — 



FAIRY GOLD 

There 's a crock o ' gold in the glade for me. 

Sheila, my Sheila ; 
It lies at the foot of the hawthorne tree. 

Sheila, Sheila-day. 
29 



There I'll delve by the moon's weird light, 

Sheila, my Sheila; 
And I '11 hear your song far off in the night, 

Sheila, Sheila-day. 

0, but your body is wondrous fair ! 

Sheila, my' Sheila; 
And 0, the tawn of your tangled hair ! 

Sheila, Sheila-day. 

Smile on me with your winsome eyes, 

Sheila, my Sheila; 
Tell me now where the witch-geld lies. 

Sheila, Sheila-day. 



THE DESERTED HOUSE 

I saw an old house fallen to decay. 

Its courtyard bare, its great door gaping wide. 
And sad-eyed windows weeping side by side 

As old men weep for glories pass'd away. 

No more shall noisy children at their play 

Or lovers ' laughter make its broad hearth ring 
When summer from the twinkling lamps of spring 

Turns up a joyous flame, and all the world is gay. 

lonely house ! God grant it may not be 
That Love who tenants this my house of clay 
Depart while still I stand to breast the strife. 
And fleeting leave my barren frame, like thee, 
A melancholy warder by the way 
Where streams the heedless carnival of life ! 
30 



SONNET AFTER SHAKESPEARE 

As some wan pilgrim, staggering 'neath his load, 

Traces with wear^^ feet his forlorn way, 
Where only hideous shadows make abode, 

And night, more black but not more dread than 
they, 
Hoping that each new turning may disclose 

Some lowlj' cot where warmth and cheer abound. 
The toilsome journey o'er, to find repose 

And cast his galling burthen to the ground ; 
Even so my weary soul a-down would fling 

His pilgrim pack, and at thy feet enjoy 
Surcease from all this barren wandering 

To dwell with peace and thee, angelic Boy ! 
My heart a harp thy heart 's refrain to play. 
My lips a lute to pipe love 's roundelay. 



IN SPITE OF TIME 

My love for you, in spite of time and change. 
Grows ever upward like a mighty tree ; 

So certain 'tis, yet ever new and strange 
It seems to me. 

It seems among those fixed eternal things 
Deep in the bases of existence blent. 

Yet all unseen each passing moment brings 
Its increment. 

And the green growing branches of my love 
With myriad hands reach upward to the blue, 
31 



Lifting me all in all the world above 
In quest of you. 

While sturdy roots strike downward through the land, 
Holding to earthly base my reach sublime — 

Thus in my love unchanging I shall stand 
In spite of time. 



LIGHT AND SONG 

Over the brow of the hill 

White star-faces peep, 
And silently down the window-sill 

The lengthening shadows creep ; 
Over the earth the night 

Mastery seeks to win. 
But the house of my heart is ever bright 

Since you came in. 

Into the stillness of eve 

Fades the voice of day. 
And even the leafless aspens grieve 

For birds that have flown away; 
Hush'd is the whip-poor-will, 

Silent is chanticleer, 
But the song of my heart is never still 

When you are near. 



32 



VINCENT STARRETT 



VILLON STROLLS AT MIDNIGHT 

* ' There is an eerie music, Tabary, 

In the malevolence of the wind tonight : 
Think you the spirits of the damned make flight 

' midnights ? Gad, a wench I used to see 

Heard all the ghosts of history ride past 

Her window on a shrieking gale like this . . . 
Look ! Where the moonlight and the shadows kiss ! 

Saw you aught move? . . . Poor jade, she died 
unmassed. 

See, where the gibbet rises, gaunt and slim ! 

(Curse me! The wind hath thrust my entrails 

through. ) 
It beareth fruit tonight — Not me, nor you ! . . . 

Hark to the clatter of tlie bones of him. 

They rattle like — Ah, do you catch your breath ? — 
Like castanets clapped in the hands of Death ! ' ' 



SALOME 

Princess that, wanton, danced before the king. 

In what red hell do you perform today ? 

Where now does your white body swing and swjay? 
To the mad music of what luring string 1 
In a blue-flamed salon I see you fling 

Your shining limbs in amorous display. 

Seeking the very demons to betray 
And tempt the devil from his banqueting. 



35 



The galaxy of hell is there arrayed ; 

They surge and struggle like a crimson tide, 
By the lewd promise of your dance beguiled ; 
And, helpless in the fearful masquerade, 
I see the faces, pale and horrified, 

Of Aubrey Beardsley and of Oscar Wilde. 



SCHEHEREZADE 

Upon the wall the firelight 's black scarves frisk ; 

A gleam of ruby dances in the night ; 

A gleam of topaz, and the room glows bright 
Before a nude, bejeweled odalisque. 
She comes with genii and with copper slaves, 

Weaving again the golden tapestries 

Of lurid and fantastic lands and seas 
Across my sight ; she comes with droll, bronze knaves, 
White turbaned, bearing casks of ebony. 

Like some weird circus, black and gold and blue ; 

Dwarfs, eunuchs, caliphs, houris and a crew 
Chanting in wild, exotic minstrelsy . . . 

And with a shiver and an eager sigh 

We enter Bagdad — Scheherezade and I. 



DON QUIXOTE 

Behold him jog adown the countryside 
With sapient Sancho ambling at his heel. 
How brave a figure in his cast-off steel, 

This gaunt anachronism, stuffed with pride ! 

36 



And now with lance at rest behold him ride, 
A flying scarecrow whose mistaken zeal 
Contrives a giant from a windmill's wheel. 

Zounds ! What a shock as man and mill collide ! 

Beloved madman ! I am on yon shelf, 

And you are here ; you live across the way, 
And up the road, and over in the lane. 
You are my friends, my neighbors, and myself, 
And maj^hap we are all a trifle fey 

"Who tilt at castles in your native Spain! 



D'ARTAGNAN 

The road to Paris stretches broad ahead ; 

From side to side great trees their shadows throw 
Across the moon-bathed path. A hidden foe 

Lurks in the forest shade, mayhap, where spread 

The royal oaks. The world is still and dead, 
Save for a horseman, riding hard, bent low 
Upon his horse's lathered neck, as though 

On pilgrimage of life and death he sped. 

D 'Artagnan ! Gad, the name seems to enthrall ! 
Duellist, soldier, Gascon, I would give 
A year of life for just one hour's delight 
With you, in court or camp or tavern brawl ; 
But most — and always will the picture live — 
For one mad dash to Paris in the night. 



37 



JOSEPH 

{After reading Charles Wells' "Joseph and his 
Brethren.'") 

God's Heaven, what a man he must have been 

That could resist the arms of Phraxanor ! 

Preaching of honor while the open door 
Of Paradise called him to splendid sin ; 
Prating of duty while the gates of hell 

Groaned on their hinges at his stoic mould. 

''Madam, your arm — pray move." "Cold, cold, 
still cold— " 
Here is a case to challenge parallel ! 

Thus is it writ. Conjecture slyly smiles — 
Was he, indeed, quite dead to all desire ? 
Think you not that with honey and with fire 

His veins ran hotly at the temptress ' wiles ? 
Ah, it is true that history sometimes errs — 
Seer, did he go his way in fact ? — or hers ? 



ENCOUNTER 

Along the dead white boulevards of Time, 
Littered with dying hopes and grinning fears, 
I thought I saw my Past stalk forth one day 
Upon adventure bent . , . and as it trod the years 
A smile of exquisite bitterness sat upon 
The cynic lips, and a low laugh maliciously 
Taunted the shattered dreams along the way. 
Erstwhile a part of its own ecstasy . . . 

38 



And then adown the months the other way, 

Stepping from misty darkness into light, 

A fearsome figure strode .... I saw my Future stand 

Upon the dim frontier of coming night 

With glittering eyes. And that first traveler 

Who scornfully the horrid way had trod 

Grew limp before the menace of its gaze 

And fell to shrieking for a spurned God. 



LAMENT OF THE KING'S SON 

My garden was so lovely yesterday — 

The roses were so dear, the trees so green ; 

I could not wish for any fairer scene — 
I was so glad, so glad that I might stay. 
The fountain splashed a joyful virelay, 

The sun fell softly through the blossom 'd screen; 

And through this bliss came one with solemn mien 
Who murmured, ' ' Sire, the King is dead, they say ! " 

And suddenly I saw the future rise, 

Sordid and shackled, fraught with shameful ease ; 
And I fell down with awful shuddering. 
And kissed the grass farewell with streaming eyes — 
And the sweet roses, and the fragrant trees — 
And whispered, brokenly, ' ' God save the King ! ' ' 



IMMORTALITY 

The beach curves like a golden scimitar. 
White hot from off the anvil of the sun. 
39 



Across its edge the hissing wavelets run ; 
In feathered insolence they stretch afar, 
Writing an occult language on the sand 

In futile foam. Their curling fingers yearn 

Toward the rising heights, but, pausing, spurn 
The emerald goal that sentinels the strand ; 
Recede, and then repeat the frantic whim. 

With crazy valor striving, day by day ; 

Twisting and coiling in their swift, mad play, 
To the lone music of their antique hymn . . . 

Thus have they played since sin from Eden fled 

They will be playing here when I am dead ! 



CHANGELING 

The gallows tree is tall and straight 
Save for the single jutting limb . . . 
And from a spot across the road 
I watched the tortured legs of him 
Who dangled there. 

The hangman laughed. 
So merry was the sight withal ; 
The hangman's daughter, standing near, 
Was lovely as a waterfall. 
Her yellow hair streamed over her ; 
Her symmetrj^ was starkly limned . . . 
I loathed and loved her, and it seemed 
Her scarlet roses glowed and dimmed 
As my wild eyes upon her fed ; 
Her glance was free and bold, I thought. 
Our tryst was secret, when the dark 
Had fallen . . . where the corpse hung taut 
40 



In the red moon . . . 
The cursed babe 
"Was hideous as hell, and we 
Shrieked as we knew the twisted face 
Of him who decked the gallows tree. 



BAGDAD : 1917 

Haroun, thy troubled ghost walks forth tonight 
In streets by booted, Christian feet profaned ; 
Where in a far day gushing wineskins stained 

The parched mosaic ... that Allah's sight 

Should view Zobeide's dishevelment, 
Scheherezade's swart beauty pale before 
The blandishments of leering gods of war; 

Their hunted shadows roused from long content. 

Bismillah ! If 'tis writ that this must be, 
Grant then another chronicler arise, 
A new Millameron to immortalize — 

The love and passion of the soldiery ! 
Another thousand nights begin to lower, 
And days, and hours, and quarters of an hour 



SEPULTURE 

The crippled bookman 's shop was musty-gray ; 
But in a corner, near the crooked stair. 
Beneath a sallow candle's yellow flare, 

I thumbed the pages of an antique play, 

41 



And found between the leaves a mummied fly, 

Dead since — God knows how long the thing was 

dead! 
Across an inch of verse its stain was spread, 

And in the margin it had come to die . . . 

What swift emotion — joy or quick despair ? — 
Closed this strange marker, think you, in a book ! 
Lad of the Future, pray you gently look 

Into old volumes . . , Turn the leaves with care, 
Lest, heedless, browsing in some letter 'd gloom, 
You shall profane my lonely, secret tomb. 



SHOP WINDOWS IN WINTER 

Piled glory of sonorous pirate kings, 
Spoil of the seven looted, ravaged seas, 
Shimmering satins, kerchiefs, tapestries, 

Plunder of Egypt, Saracenic rings ; 

Shawls from the painted desert, gleaming gems 
Torn from the heart of mountains, fluted shells 
Out of the greenest depths of ocean wells ; 

Sinister gold from ravished diadems . . . 

What of the whirling tempest, then ? The gale 
Blows the perfume of island Zanzibar; 
Roving in colour through a vast bazaar, 

I am a figure in a splendid tale : 

In the hot Indies trading contraband. 
Trafficking in the streets of Samarcand! 



42 



BASIL THOMPSON 



BEATA MEMORIA 

Though long indeed, since I beheld thee last, 

Yet surely brief doth seem the space what time 
Thy beatific presence first was cast 

Upon my soul, memory sublime ! 
No sight, not even that of nude Diane, 

Which so delighted poor Acteon's eyes, 
Has, may I venture, visited a man 

With such a very glimpse of Paradise. 

Young Dante once did pace a rivered street 
Wliereon full many mortal maidens dwelt 
And chancing there an angel-maid to meet, 
Perhaps some whit the same he may have felt. 
But lo ! in what white song did he profess 
His love, and his dear lady's loveliness. 



PREINCARNATION 

Erewhile when on some gladder sphere 

You laughed your little span away, 
Not mindful to be weeping here 

As you are weeping here today, 
Did once you pause the while you joyed 

To ponder on a day to be. 
Which time, perchance, should be employed 

In Paradisal jubilee? 
45 



Did you desire a higher place 

Than that whereon you sang and played ? 
Did once you crave a braver grace 

Than that with which you were arrayed ? 
Did you not, rather, realize 
That you were then in Paradise? 



EGO ET DESIDERIUM MEUM 

Night-long thy silver voice did sound itself to me 

Adown the dim dream-vistas of the past, 

Remembering a life too fair to be, 

Relating of a love too rare to last — 

Oh, lithe, blithe, wondrous one, Mistress of Mystery, 

How I do passion thee I 

Sure, thou art that which is a blend of bliss and pain, 
A bond betwixt divinity and death ; 
An elfin sun-ray revelling in the rain ; 
A wistful waft of halcyon-scented breath. 
Which even felt is flown, and venturously vain 
To wish to win again. 

Still were it not for thee and that clear call of thine. 
The which will ever trumpet m.y desire, 
I think, indeed, this thirsty soul of mine 
Would very soon of mortal voices tire — 
Their words are merely words, while thine are God's 
own wine. 



My Mystery Divine 



46 

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BINDERY INC. |§| 

1^ DEC 88 

N. MANCHESTER 
INDIANA 46962* 



















